


it would've been you

by hyruling



Series: those flashing lights [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sharing a Bed, morons to lovers, this is all because bill hader cant pose in pictures, this is stupid they are stupid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:27:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25795858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyruling/pseuds/hyruling
Summary: “Why has no one brought this up before?” Eddie continues. “I’m not trying to be mean, Rich, honest, but you literally pay people to help you with shit like this. I went back and you pose like this at every red carpet—““You wentback?” Richie interrupts, delighted. “You googled my name willingly?”“I literally have a google alert for your name, shit for brains, focus.”“Youdo?”“Shut up. Who is your publicist?”or - Richie is bad at posing on the red carpet. Eddie has a plan to fix that.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: those flashing lights [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1901398
Comments: 41
Kudos: 696





	it would've been you

**Author's Note:**

> the other day i made [this stupid twitter post](https://twitter.com/edskaspbraking/status/1288127748263702534?s=20), said 'is anyone gonna write this' and didn't wait for an answer. 
> 
> this is short and stupid and silly, thank you to every one of my twitter friends that enabled me and have been excited for this i love you so much <3
> 
> this did not follow exactly what i said in the tweet because richie and eddie do what they want. its basically just another Eddie Moves To LA And Richie Pines fic - hope you enjoy. 
> 
> cws: alcohol, drug mention (weed), emetophobia. richie makes an insensitive joke about strokes. 40 year old is too good at memes to be believable. none of it is too serious, but feel free to ask if you're concerned about anything <3
> 
> there are several taylor swift references in this, so obviously the title is from folklore, specifically 'the 1'. effervescent.

Richie’s made no secret of the fact that he hates premieres. He’d ditched most of the ones he could get away with early in his career — the flashing lights gave him migraines, and he couldn’t stomach looking at the pictures the next day, face shiny with sweat, awkward smile plastered on his face, and unless he had a co-star to lean on, arms hanging uselessly at his sides. 

Now, though, he’d be drawn and quartered through the streets by his manager if he tried to get out of the premiere for his latest film. Steve had, in his words, “kissed every ass in Hollywood” to get him the part, which will no doubt put him on the path to more writing jobs like he desperately wants. Therefore, he’s been threatened within an inch of his life if he no shows. As if Richie could be scared of anything Steve could throw at him after Derry 2.0.

Still, he shows up two hours early, as promised. He lets his stylist fuss with his suit and doesn’t complain as Maria paints a layer of makeup on his face that he’s just going to sweat off anyway, tries not to sweat through the suit jacket as soon as it’s shrugged over his shoulders and then gives up within minutes. He throws up twice and slides in the limo, accompanied by no one. Because even though he now has six people that have sworn to be there for him no matter what, suddenly everyone was too busy to make a red carpet appearance at 7pm on a Wednesday. 

He still has a flood of texts wishing him good luck, and it bolsters him a little as he climbs out of the car and into the blinding lights. 

It all gets a little hazy after that. 

The next morning he wakes up to his phone buzzing. He’s mildly hungover and contemplates rolling over and ignoring it, but when he sees who’s calling he picks up embarrassingly fast.

“Good morning my favorite little gremlin,” Richie croons into the phone. 

“Fuck off, you cannot seriously be saying that to me after what I’m looking at right now.”

“Eds, please be gentle. I’ve only been conscious for twenty seconds.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Eddie asks, ignoring Richie’s request. 

“What you want, like, specifics?”

Eddie hesitates. “I mean your voice is all. Croaky.”

“Mmm right, well this sultry little treat is compliments of three too many tequila shots at age forty-one in combination with a few hits of that good green kush.”

“I only understood about sixty percent of that.”

Richie laughs, though it comes out as more of a gravelly snort. “I smoked, Eds, and it’s been awhile. And I’m hungover as shit.”

“Ah,” is all Eddie says. Richie hears his throat click as he swallows. 

“So, uh. Anything I can do for you at—“ he pulls the phone away from his ear to glance at the time, “—jesus, _nine_ am?”

“Yeah, I wanna know the name of your publicist.”

“My— why?”

“So I know who to chew out for letting you walk around like this.” 

“ _More_ context, Spaghetti.”

Eddie sighs, and Richie hears the shuffling of his phone. 

“I just sent you some pictures.”

Richie minimizes their call and opens their text chain, immediately barking out a laugh when he sees what Eddie’s sent. 

“Oh fuck, I really hoped I’d never have to look at these.”

“Richie, what the fuck!” Eddie’s tinny voice cries from far away. Richie snorts and pulls it back to his ear. “You look like a fucking undergrown tree that someone attached overgrown human arms to at the last minute.”

Richie full on cackles at that, grabbing his laptop to pull the pictures up and laughs again when he sees how awkward he looks. “God, I swear I blacked out during all this. I don’t remember posing like an eighth grader going stag at his junior prom.”

“Why has no one brought this up before?” Eddie continues. “I’m not trying to be mean, Rich, honest, but you literally pay people to help you with shit like this. I went back and you pose like this at every red carpet—“

“You went _back_?” Richie interrupts, delighted. “You googled my name willingly?”

“I literally have a google alert for your name, shit for brains, focus.”

“You _do_?”

“ _Shut up._ Who is your publicist?”

“Eddie baby, this is not something a publicist can help me with. This is just like, who I am as a person. Awkward, overgrown dweeb who never learned how to take a normal picture.” 

“But you’re not awkward,” Eddie says, voice dropping to something verging on soft. _Do not yearn,_ he instructs himself silently. “You’re like… the most charismatic person I know.” 

Richie’s heart flutters helplessly. “Maybe in a normal interaction. I’m just weird about pictures man, that’s all.”

“Why?” 

Richie groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. This is not a conversation he wants to have when his head is seconds from exploding.

“I mean, I had to follow fucking Brad Pitt out there. And that’s not even an exaggeration, like, _the_ literal Brad Pitt.”

“I’m aware,” Eddie says tersely. “He was your co-star dude, that’s how it works.”

“Yeah, so, forgive me for being a little self conscious having to stand next to fifty plus beautiful people while looking like Shaggy from Scooby Doo—“

“Woah, no, stop. First, you do _not_ look like Shaggy, and even if you did, he was the hottest one anyway.”

“ _Edward._ Hang on, we need to unpack that _—“_

 _“Second,_ you. You looked good, Richie, really good. Bev did amazing shit with your suit. And you— I mean, aside from your fucking muppet stance, you looked good. The uh, candids were. Better.”

His voice has definitely dropped into what he would categorize as soft now, and Richie is having a moment about it. Several moments. 

“I— uh. Thanks?”

“Yeah, well.”

They fall into an awkward silence, Richie staring unseeingly at the pictures on his laptop. Bev had made him a custom suit of maroon fabric and crushed velvet that she said accentuated his shoulders, whatever the fuck that means. He still doesn’t see all that much positive in it, but it fit better than any other suit he’d worn to events in the past, at least. 

“So what are your notes, Eddie my love? Should I do the hand on the hip thing? Both hands on the hips? Carry a prop?”

“Do not do the hip thing,” Eddie says decisively. “You’re too… you can’t pull that off.”

“Okay, so, a prop.”

“Maybe not a prop, but they could at least have you pose with another person? Give your giant fucking arms something to do.”

“Well, as you may recall, none of my blood oath loser friends could _make_ it, so I had no one to pose with.” 

“Shit, Rich, I’m sorry,” Eddie says, changing tune immediately. “I wanted to be there, really, I did but I—”

“Live three-thousand miles, dude, I get it. That was more of a dig at Bill ‘I live fifteen fucking minutes down the street’ Denbrough’.”

“No but I really wanted to fly out, I mean it, I had it all planned out to be like, a surprise—” 

Richie’s heart stops. 

“—but something came up, and I. Uh. I’m divorced. Now.”

Richie’s heart starts beating again, so fast he has a hard time catching his breath. 

“Wait like. Official and shit?” 

“Official and shit,” Eddie confirms, and Richie can hear the relief in his voice. 

“ _Fuck_ yeah!” Richie exclaims, and Eddie laughs. 

“Yeah, they moved the court date last minute, so it fucked my plans and I couldn’t come, I’m so sorry Rich.” 

“Dude fuck that, no one gives a shit about my dumb indie movie and gorilla arms when you’re _free_.” 

“People still give a shit about you Rich,” Eddie says quietly. 

Embarrassingly, Richie’s breath catches audibly at that. “I can’t wrap my head around that in this state, Eds. How are you feeling?” 

“Good, really good,” Eddie says. “But also… kind of lost. My sublet is up in two weeks, and I just put my notice in at work, I don’t— I mean, I have some savings so I’ll be okay, but I just don’t know what to—” 

“Come to LA,” Richie says without thinking. Eddie inhales sharply; his brain catches up with his mouth a moment later, but it’s too late. He digs his heels in. “Yeah, come on. I have two extra bedrooms that are gathering cobwebs. It doesn’t— have to be permanent, just while you figure out what you’re doing. I promise I won’t be weird.” 

“You’re always weird.” 

“I’ll dial it back for you. Come on, Eds. I’ll be out there next weekend for the New York premiere, I’ll pick you up, help you move out here.” 

There’s a long silence. Richie expects more of an argument, more “buts” and “what ifs”, already forming responses in his head before Eddie can ask them, trying to make them seem less self serving and desperate. 

Then, finally, “What day is your premiere?”  
  
  


* * *

Richie blinks, and then suddenly he’s crouching off the tarmac and into the stale air of JFK, following the long line of people to baggage claim where he finds Eddie waiting for him. 

“Spagheds!” he cries, speeding up to meet him and crushing him to his chest without a thought. 

Eddie makes a little “oof” sound and hugs him back, arms wrapping tight around Richie’s waist. Richie pulls back after a smidge longer than a usual bro hug should last, keeping his hands on Eddie’s shoulders as he looks him over. 

“You alright?” Richie asks quietly, taking in the dark circles under Eddie’s eyes. Almost of its own volition, Richie’s thumb brushes the skin there gently, heart thudding painfully when Eddie closes his eyes. 

“Fine,” Eddie answers, and Richie retracts his hand, reaching instead to white knuckle the strap of his carry-on. 

Eddie opens his eyes again, and rolls them when he sees the disbelief of Richie's face. “I’m _fine_ , Richie. Just haven’t been sleeping very well.”

“Is that code for slutting it up on Grindr dates,” Richie asks dryly, trying extra hard to sound unaffected, the same way he’d tried to force himself to react when Eddie announced that he was gay to the groupchat a few weeks back. At least Eddie couldn’t see his face for that.

“Fuck you, no. It’s code for ‘my life has been turned upside down and I’m recovering from a traumatic clown murder and near death experience’, you fuck.” 

“Eds,” Richie says quietly. 

_Me too_ , he wants to say. _I still wake up screaming your name. I hold your lifeless body in my nightmares and wish I was dead too._

He doesn’t say it. He watches Eddie take a shuddering breath, and it still feels like a miracle that he’s breathing at all. 

“It’s fine. I’m handling it. And you’re here now.” 

He smiles, dimples creasing and wrinkling the nearly silvered scar on his cheek. Richie swallows and returns it, hoping Eddie doesn’t call him out on—

“Are you about to cry? Richie, come on.”

“What? You’re _happy_ to see me, this is one of the best days of my life,” Richie says honestly. 

Eddie rolls his eyes again, and they’re interrupted by the luggage carousel coming to life. 

“Come on. Let’s get your shit and get out of here.”

  
  


* * *

They grab Richie’s bag and load it into Eddie’s ridiculous newly repaired Escalade, which Richie hates to admit is kinda sexy to see him in. Eddie talks his ear off all the way to his downtown sublet apartment, filling him in on details of his divorce, giving his opinion on Ben and Bev’s decision to move in together so quickly (very positive, actually — Richie had expected a detailed pros and cons list on the subject), as well as anything else that occurs to him as he navigates New York’s horrific traffic. 

His temporary apartment is tiny — he’d said as much when Richie mentioned staying with him the two nights he’d be in town, saying he was fine crashing on his couch. He could have stayed in a hotel, but something about the way Eddie had sounded on the phone evoked a long dormant protectiveness that was impossible to ignore. Eddie had put up only the smallest amount of resistance when Richie had insisted on a two night sleepover, which in Eddie-speak meant that he really wanted Richie to stay with him. 

“Nice,” Richie says, looking around appraisingly. There’s a small couch tucked in a corner with a tiny TV, right next to the kitchen. Richie looks down a hallway and sees what he supposes constitutes a bedroom; Eddie’s curtained off the area that just barely holds his full size bed and dresser. Richie can see the edge of the bed peeking around the curtain. 

“It’s a shoebox,” Eddie says somewhat miserably. “I didn’t take anything with me but my clothes, and I still had to donate half of them just to fit it all in the dresser.” 

“Good thing you’re pint sized yourself, squirt,” Richie says cheerfully. It works to distract him, and he ducks out of the way when Eddie tries to swat him. 

“Fuck off. Bathrooms on the left down the hall, if you need it. I’ll order us a pizza.”

Richie showers and changes, again having to duck to fit his head under the shower head. He tells Eddie as much ten minutes later while he’s getting them some drinks, expecting another annoyed dig about being a gargantuan. He doesn’t expect Eddie to stutter something unintelligible and blush, and spends a good minute gaping like an idiot until Eddie snaps at him to close the refrigerator door. 

Richie gets pleasantly buzzed on Eddie’s couch, spending the next two hours teasing Eddie for his obsession with the Great British Bake Off while getting unwittingly hooked himself. Eddie’s couch is small, and they’re pressed together shoulder to waist, more so when Eddie pulls his legs under him and leans his full body weight against Richie. He’s not sober enough to talk himself out of the longing this elicits. 

Eddie falls asleep on his shoulder around midnight, and though it kills him to do so, he wakes him with a gentle poke to his cheek that does _not_ turn into a caress. He simply lets his fingers gently brush his cheek as his hand falls back to his side, Eddie blinking awake and looking so adorably grumpy Richie might realistically die. 

“Beddie for Spaghetti,” Richie says softly, smiling when Eddie groans. 

“Hate you,” Eddie grumbles. “Where… phone.” 

Richie looks around, pushing aside beer bottles and plates, feels around the couch cushions. Eddie’s phone doesn’t turn up. 

“Do you remember where you last had it?” 

“C’ll it,” Eddie mumbles, eyes half lidded as he half heartedly helps Richie look. 

Richie pulls his phone from his pocket, surreptitiously hiding his lockscreen from him (a candid mid-laugh picture of Eddie he’d taken the last time they were together). He tells Siri to call Spaghetti, earning another sleepy groan of protest, and then hears Eddie’s phone buzz somewhere near his feet. 

Gallantly, he gets on his knees and fishes it out from under the couch, and when he gets a glimpse of Eddie’s contact picture for him he laughs so loud that Eddie recoils. 

“Th’ fuck are you so loud for?” Eddie grumbles, eyes widening when he sees Richie looking at his phone. 

“You really can’t get enough, huh?” Richie asks with a grin. 

Eddie snatches his phone out of Richie’s hand and mutes the call, looking horrified. “Richie, I wasn’t— I’m not like, making fun of you—” 

“Yeah, you are Eds. That’s what you _do._ ” 

“It’s not— I’m not trying to be mean though, okay?” Eddie continues, wide awake now and anxious, reaching out to Richie and letting his hands fall. “It’s just. They make me smile.” 

Richie feels something go soft and soupy in his chest at that, especially when Eddie follows it up with another beautiful blush. Paired with his tousled bedhead and wide eyes, he looks like he just dropped straight out of one of Richie’s daydreams.

“I’m glad my inability to stand like a normal person brings you so much joy,” Richie says, and Eddie smiles. 

“‘M gonna fix that,” Eddie says, looking sleepy again now that Richie’s been assured he’s not being bullied. 

“Oh yeah?”  
  
“Yeah. Jus’ wait.”  
  
“I’ll be on the edge of my seat,” Richie says, standing to tug Eddie to his feet by the armpits. “C’mon, bed.” 

He walks Eddie down the hall and around the curtain, essentially tucking him in once Eddie curls into a ball and closes his eyes. He’s just turned off the lamp when Eddie speaks again. 

“Wait.” 

Richie turns, sees Eddie reaching one hand out without looking at him. 

“Bed’s more comf’rtable. Stay.” 

Richie’s heart lodges itself in his throat. “I’m good on the couch, Eds.”  
  
“No,” Eddie argues, waving his hand impatiently. “Nightmares.” 

And all at once he remembers the dark circles under Eddie’s eyes, the persistent strain in his expression that finally relaxed when he conked out on Richie’s shoulder. 

“Okay,” Richie agrees, climbing into bed without another thought. “I’m here, Eds.” 

Eddie’s hand reaches out blindly and lands on Richie’s forearm; he sighs when he finds Richie warm and solid next to him and snuggles deeper in the pillow. It’s unbearably cute. 

“Night, Rich,” Eddie murmurs. 

“Night, Spaghetti,” Richie whispers back. 

* * *

He and Eddie go out for brunch the next morning before Richie has to head to The Beacon. They’d had to rush after sleeping late, because Eddie had made reservations basically the minute Richie booked his flight, which makes Richie’s stomach do a stupid little flip. It doesn’t stop when he sees Eddie emerge from the bathroom, dressed in a soft looking t-shirt and jeans with his hair loose and wavy. And it _super_ isn’t helped every time he remembers waking up with Eddie pressed against his back, feeling his breath on his neck, and the way he’d been so normal about it when they woke up. Richie laid there frozen, completely blanking on a chill response to being spooned by the unrequited love of his life, and Eddie had simply yawned and mumbled, “Morning Rich,” before getting up ambling down the tiny hall to the bathroom.

All this to say: he's going to slip into a horny coma before he even has a chance to embarrass himself on the red carpet tonight. 

“So, any pointers?” Richie asks after they’ve finished eating, finishing off their third mimosa in a comfortable silence. 

“Pointers?” Eddie repeats. His t-shirt is too big, threatening to slip off his shoulder any second, and Richie has to keep reminding himself not to stare at his collarbone. 

“You know, to avoid another mess like this,” Richie says, tapping Eddie’s phone and revealing another of the awkward pictures. “Ha! I knew you had it as your lockscreen too.”

“Go fuck yourself.” 

“Later. First I want to hear your ideas. You _did_ say you were gonna fix it.”

“I did, huh,” Eddie says with a sly little grin, sipping his mimosa and actually _winking_ at Richie over the glass. 

“Edward Francis-Spaghetti Kaspbrak,” Richie says, heart thumping furiously. He wants to kiss him so bad. “What are you plotting?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Eddie says, finally dropping eye contact. “We should get the check.”

Eddie refuses to engage as they pay, ignoring Richie’s needling the entire time it takes them to leave the restaurant. He focuses on the road as he drives Richie to the theater, only speaking when Richie pretends to drop the subject to distract him. 

“Here you are,” Eddie says, pulling up to the curb. “Have fun.” 

“Eddie,” Richie says plaintively. “Eddie, my love, my dearest, light of my life — please tell me your evil plot.” 

“No one said it was evil,” Eddie says flippantly, adjusting his rearview mirror. He glances over at Richie and pointedly unlocks the doors. “Come on now. I got you here on time, don’t make me look bad.” 

“Nothing on earth could make a body that tight look bad, Eds,” Richie says with an eyebrow waggle. 

Eddie’s cheeks go deliciously pink, and he leans over slowly in a way that makes Richie’s heart skyrocket through his throat directly into his brain. As such it takes far too long for him to realize Eddie is reaching across him to open the passenger door, a move that has no right to be as sexy as it is, what the fuck. 

Eddie lingers in his space for just a moment though, grinning, and says, “Good luck, Rich. Now get the fuck out of my car.” 

And Richie does, jello legs barely holding him up as he slides out of the car like the lovesick worm he is. Eddie winks again when Richie turns to close the door, peeling out the second Richie is out of the way. 

His phone buzzes just as he’s walking in the building, mentally debating whether he has time to jerk off before he’s forced into the makeup chair. 

**Spaghetti 🍝  
**Get your jaw off the sidewalk idiot. People walk there. 

**Richie  
**are u texting and driving???? edward im so disappointed

 **Spaghetti 🍝  
**I’m driving with Do Not Disturb While Driving turned on. I’ll see your message when I get where I’m going.

(I’m not receiving notifications. If this is urgent, reply “urgent” to send a notification through with your original message.)

 **Richie  
** urgent  
huff my shorts kaspbrak

* * *

  
  


Eddie doesn’t text him back, so he spends the entire time in makeup obsessively analyzing every interaction since he showed up in New York. By most people’s standards, Eddie’s behavior could be described as flirtatious. However, Richie’s complete denial about the possibility of Eddie returning his feelings is so strong that there’s no way he could conceivably just accept and deal with that like a normal person. Instead, he spends all of his prep time googling various phrases Eddie has said to him over the last twenty-four hours until his search history is more or less:

“they (you) make me smile + is this flirting”  
“i’m glad you’re here + is this flirting”  
“guy has picture of me as his lockscreen + is this flirting”  
“guy WINKED AT ME TWICE IN 24 HOURS + IS THIS FLIRTING”

He’s released from hair and makeup an hour before showtime to get dressed. Tonight’s suit is another of Bev’s creations, of course. Similar to his LA suit, though instead of maroon it’s made of dark green crushed velvet. He snaps a selfie and sends it to her as promised, grateful his typical flop sweat has so far not made its appearance. 

**Madame Bevington  
** !!!!!! HELLOOO HANDSOME  
What did I tell you! The green brings out your eyes   
Perfect night for someone to drown in them 😍

 **Richie  
**i’ll be sure my right hand gets a good eyeful then

 **Madame Bevington  
** You never knowww  
Have fun 🥰 😘 

He’s ushered into the limo before he can respond, and then he’s throwing back two flutes of champagne to deal with the nerves, miraculously not yet sweating thanks to the chillier New York weather and the A/C cranked to max in the car. 

The car slows as it joins the queue outside. Richie peers out and sees Brad duck out of his own limo to thunderous applause and screams, cameras going off like fireworks exploding. He sends another silent prayer that the crowd will be so enamored with him that they won’t even notice Richie. 

They inch forward until Richie’s limo is next. He takes several deep breaths, checks his glasses for smudges, and is just about to pocket his phone for the night when it vibrates in his hand. 

**Spaghetti 🍝  
**Nice suit. You look really good, Richie

 **Richie  
**bev send you the picture?

 **Spaghetti 🍝  
**Something like that. 

He frowns, jilted out of his confusion by his driver gently saying his name, and realizes it’s his turn. 

“Fuck,” he swears quietly to himself, hastily shoving his phone in his front pocket. 

He reaches for the handle, but before he can even make contact the door opens for him, and bright sunlight streams into his eyes. He looks up, confused, and feels all the breath leave his body in a loud exhale. 

“ _Eds_?” 

He blinks, but it’s not a hallucination. Eddie is there, dressed in a dark three piece suit with a patterned dark green bowtie to match Richie’s suit. His hair is gelled, but in a way that accentuates his waves — curls fall softly across his forehead, and Richie thinks he’s seen god. He blinks again and realizes Eddie is holding out his hand expectantly, smiling down at him.

“Come on, dick. You’re holding up the line.” 

Richie makes some sort of noise — he’s not sure how to describe it — and then Eddie is leaning closer to grab Richie’s hand that’s sort of just hovered midair since he saw Eddie. 

Eddie pulls him out of the car, tugs him towards the carpet, and then just — holds on. Distantly Richie is aware of flashes and screams of his own name, but all he’s focused on is Eddie and the slightly sweaty point of contact between them. 

Eddie finally slows when they reach a throng of people before the first vinyl step and repeat but still doesn’t let go of Richie’s hand. It’s quieter here, most of the cameras waiting for them ahead, and Richie tries to find his voice. 

“Eds,” Richie says hoarsely, tugging Eddie around to look at him.

He looks a little sheepish now, cheeks flushed as he looks up at Richie. 

“Sorry for catching you off guard like this,” Eddie says quietly. Richie has to lean down to hear him. “Bev thought it would be more fun to surprise you.” 

“I— what are we _doing_ Eddie?” 

“I told you I was going to fix your problem,” Eddie says with a grin. His fingers twine with Richie’s and squeeze. “Ta-da. I’m your prop.” 

“Eddie,” Richie says weakly. “This is… fucking _hilarious,_ but— people are going to—” 

“I know,” Eddie says, still smiling easily. “I know what they’ll assume.” 

“And… you’re okay—?”  
  
“Of course,” Eddie says easily, squeezing his hand again. “I’d do anything for you Richie, you know that.” 

Richie isn’t fully aware of much after that. He knows at some point they’re ushered into the prime photo-zone, and Eddie takes the lead from there. Eddie holds his hand as they walk, and when they pause to pose he alternates between holding Richie’s elbow or wrapping his arm around Richie’s waist. Richie goes with the flow, doing whatever Eddie initiates, smiling in a way that he’s sure is going to come across as manic. 

Eddie doesn’t let go of him until they reach the end of the step and repeat, and even then he only lets go when he has to shake someone’s hand. He touches the small of Richie’s back as soon as he’s done though, keeping up with the small talk and maintaining the easy touches and smiles until they’re seated in the theater thirty minutes later. 

They settle in their seats. Eddie continues to schmooze for him, making introductions and light conversation with their seatmates, some friends of the producers or something. People Richie should know, but it doesn’t matter because Eddie’s hand is still resting gently on his forearm and he’s on _fire_. 

Finally, Eddie wraps up his conversation while Richie continues to stare blankly at his hand, and Eddie trails it down to squeeze at his hand briefly before finally pulling back and clasping his hands together in his lap. 

“You okay?” Eddie asks quietly, barely audible over the murmuring in the theater. 

“Fine,” Richie squeaks out, clearing his throat. “Fine, Eds, just. Processing.” 

He chances a glance at Eddie and finds him smiling softly. “I’m sorry if I freaked you out, I just thought… it would be funnier as a surprise.” 

“Funny, yeah,” Richie says, heart sinking. “Yeah, nice one Eds.” 

Eddie furrows his brows, looking flighty all of a sudden. “Wait, Rich, I wasn’t—”

He’s interrupted by the lights dimming, pre-recorded intro playing as it asks everyone to take their seats and silence their phones. Eddie looks like he still wants to say something, but dutifully turns and faces the screen. He doesn’t touch Richie again for the duration of the film. 

* * *

They don’t circle back to the conversation that night, mostly because Richie practically does somersaults in the streets to avoid it. 

He gets too drunk at the afterparty, and Eddie’s casual touches to keep up appearances become increasingly necessary actions just to keep him upright. Eddie insists on taking him home around two am when Richie announces to the room at large he’s going to streak through Times Square. Absolutely no one even glances in his direction, but Eddie still insists they call it a night. 

“Eddie,” Richie slurs in the backseat of the limo, still rented in his name for the night. Eddie looks up from his phone, and the moonlight in the window highlights his scar and cheekbones in a way that should be illegal. 

“Yeah, Rich?” 

Richie groans and shuffles until he’s lying flat on the bench across from Eddie. Eddie just watches him, phone in hand, with a fondly exasperated expression. 

“Sorry I got drunk.” 

“You’re allowed to get drunk, Richie. It was a celebration of _your_ movie, dude, you should have fun and be proud.” 

He hates when Eddie says heartfelt shit like this. Which is a lie, of course, he just wishes it didn’t make him want to throw up every time. “Yeah, but… ‘m sorry we had to leave.” 

Eddie laughs. “Stop apologizing. I need to finish packing anyway, it was time to go.” 

“Packing,” Richie repeats, shoving his face in the sticky leather seat. 

“Get your face out of there, that’s _disgusting—_ ”

“We’re gonna be roomies,” Richie says happily, wincing when his glasses dig too sharply into his face. 

Eddie sighs and reaches across to lift his face out of the leather, righting his glasses again. 

“You’re b’utiful, Eds,” he slurs. 

“Thanks, Rich.” 

The car takes a turn a little too fast and Richie’s world spins. He closes his eyes against the onslaught of vertigo. 

“I mean it. You’re b-beautiful, an’ I don’t know how I’m gonna survive living with you.” 

“I think you’ll manage,” Eddie says dryly. 

“No, I won’. ‘Cause I love you, Spag— Spa— Eddie.” 

Eddie doesn’t answer. Richie feels himself drifting off, and wakes a few minutes later when Eddie drags him up and out of the limo. 

He thinks Eddie puts him to bed, stripping him down to his boxers while Richie halfheartedly tries to make suggestive jokes. He’s half asleep when Eddie crawls in a few minutes later, but he thinks Eddie pushing at him until he lies on his side is real. But when he feels him press against his back again, murmuring something about puking in his sleep and trailing his hand gently across Richie’s bicep, that’s when he suspects it has to be a dream. 

And when Eddie whispers, “I love you too,” into his skin, he’s knows for certain that he’s dreaming. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Their flight back to LA leaves at four pm. Richie blinks awake at twelve-thirty to find Eddie’s tiny apartment has been reduced to piles of blurry boxes and suitcases — his bed and the furniture are the only unpacked things he can make out in the whole place. 

“Eddie,” Richie groans, pulling the comforter over his head. “I’m dying.” 

The comforter disappears, slower and more gently than he’d been expecting, and Eddie’s slightly sweaty face appears above him. 

“Drink some water, asshole,” he says, grinning and easily avoiding Richie’s hand when he tries to push his face away. “And take some Tylenol. We’ll grab food at the airport.” 

“Urgh,” Richie says dramatically, immediately hiding underneath the covers again when Eddie disappears. “I’m never eating again. Just leave me here, Eds, let the roaches take care of me.” 

“Disgusting. No,” Eddie says cheerfully. Richie listens to him tape up a box, the ripping sound of the packing tape like nails on a chalkboard. 

“Thought you said you only brought your clothes,” Richie calls, voice muffled through the fabric. 

“I did. All the kitchen stuff was Bev’s, she let me borrow it. I’m packing it up for her to pick up. The furniture belongs to the tenant so it’s staying.”

“Hmff,” Richie grunts. 

“Do _not_ go back to sleep,” Eddie snaps, gentle teasing mood clearly over. “We need to leave for the airport in one hour, go puke or shit or whatever you need to do and take a shower.” 

“You’re so sexy when you’re bossy,” Richie says, meaning every word. Every bone in his body protests when he pulls himself up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed clumsily. 

“Fuck off,” Eddie says. Richie looks up just in time to see him glance away from Richie’s bare legs with an annoyed pinch to his forehead. 

Interesting. 

He sequesters himself in the bathroom after grabbing his glasses and his phone, fully charged thanks to his 5’9 guardian angel, and sits on the toilet fully clothed to send off a furious flurry of texts. 

**Richie  
****  
** so you’ve drunkenly confessed you’re in love with your best friend

 **Madame Bevington  
** You really just don’t read anything else before you get going do you  
I know for a fact you have 48 unread texts in this groupchat alone

 **Richie  
** bev there isn’t TIME  
i’m currently hiding in his bathroom where im supposed to be showering before our 6 hour flight  
our 6 hour flight back to MY HOME. where he WILL ALSO BE.   
LIVING. WITH ME.  
IN MY HOME

 **Madame Bevington  
**There’s time when you’re being a dumbfuck 

**Richie  
**ok, duly noted, promise i will backread next time, next???

 **Haystack  
**She’s right Richie, scroll up

“Useless,” Richie seethes, scrolling up to the forty plus messages from the group chat. 

He should’ve realized it was weird that these texts were all in their Eddie-less chat rather than the normal Losers chat. The messages are mostly from Bev, Ben, and Mike with a few interjections from Stan and Bill. He skims through it, barely reading, when he comes across the pictures. 

There’s only two, but there only need to be two. In one, Eddie and Richie are holding hands, mid laugh, faces angled towards each other in a way that makes his stomach swoop. In the other, their arms are wrapped around each other’s waist. Richie is looking towards the cameras, Eddie smiling up at him proudly. 

“Oh,” Richie breathes. 

Eddie is not a good actor. Richie knows this, because in their tenth grade production of _Grease,_ Eddie was cast as an extra T-Bird before getting cut two weeks in because he was too stiff and couldn’t deliver any lines without needing his inhaler. In eleventh grade, he’d tagged along with Richie to one improv class three towns over and swore he’d never set foot in one again after having a meltdown in his first scene. He could never successfully lie to his mother as kids unless it was over the phone. And Richie had been in the hospital room with him when he’d first called his wife after Derry, stuttering adorably through the rehearsed lie about why he was in the hospital, until it got the best of him and he exploded with, “I— divorce!” and promptly hung up on her. 

And of course, Richie knows Eddie down to his marrow. He knows all of his tells, knows when Eddie is lying, and what he’s looking at is not that. 

**Richie  
** ok so  
i didn’t read any of the texts   
but the pictures are. hm. 

**Billiam  
**You’re a nightmare

 **Richie  
**dressed like a daydream 😉

 **Madame Bevington  
** This is exhausting  
Richie, Eddie asked me for like a shitload of favors to pull last night off  
It was a gesture, ok?   
a R-O-M-A-N-T-I-C GESTURE, since I have to spell everything out for you

 **Stanley the Manly  
**And before you do the self deprecating thing, he’s also been blowing up my phone about you for months

 **Mikey Mike  
**Same 

**Richie  
** ok well i simply cant handle this   
and i don’t even like eddie like that anyway lol

 **Stanley the Manly  
**I will STRANGLE you 

**Richie  
**yeah so i’m gonna drown myself in his tiny shower now bye

He mutes the conversation with shaky hands and breathes deeply, fighting the urge to climb out of Eddie’s sixth story bathroom window. If they’re right, this is everything he’s ever wanted, everything he’s thought about for a solid year and for thirty years before that, and he’s fucking terrified. 

“Did you fall in?” Eddie’s voice calls through the door with a gentle thud on the wood. 

“You gonna come rescue me if I did?” Richie calls back, proud of the way his voice doesn’t shake. 

“No fucking way. Hurry up, I’m almost done and I wanna make sure my hair is dry before we leave.” 

He doesn’t say anything else, footsteps trailing away to the kitchen, and Richie exhales. 

It’s just Eddie. The person he’s been in love with since before he was conscious of what that meant, the person who makes existing easier than breathing just by being near him. 

He takes a breath, showers, and plans. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


“So.” 

Eddie looks over from his nest of pillows and blanket, all brought from home of course. The sun is setting in the tiny window behind him, and Richie can already see the way his eyes are drooping. 

“I have like, four minutes until I’m unconscious dude,” Eddie says groggily, and Richie suppresses a grin. “Not the time to be starting conversations with an ominous fucking _‘so’_.”

“Not ominous,” Richie says, grinning as the flight attendant passes them by. He’d sprung for first class, and Eddie had immediately curled into a ball in the oversized seat, making Richie promise to recline the seat for him once they were in the air as he downed sleeping pills. 

“Just wondering if you’d seen the pictures,” Richie says casually, accepting his glass of Coke from the flight attendant. 

Eddie perks up slightly. “Yeah, I’ve seen ‘em.” 

Richie raises an eyebrow. “No thoughts?” 

Eddie shrugs. “You fishing for a compliment, Tozier?” 

“No, not—”  
  
“”Cause you looked hot, if that’s what you wanna hear,” Eddie says, eyes slipping shut. He smiles though, like he can sense that Richie’s flustered. 

“Well this fuckin’ backfired,” Richie mutters. 

“Wha’s that?” 

“Nothing. Go to sleep weirdo.” 

Eddie hums, out for the count within seconds. Richie settles in to pass the time with a few in-flight movies; Eddie stirs two hours in and drops his head on Richie’s shoulder unceremoniously, and Richie is so distracted he never ends up finding out if Harry Styles survives Dunkirk. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


“So, you didn’t like. Plan this with Jane then.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

They’re at the airport, waiting on Eddie’s four checked bags (plus all the clothes he’d stuffed into Richie’s bag when they wouldn’t fit, which made him feel some type of way). Eddie’s scrolling through the groupchat — Richie had obviously paid for in-flight wifi so he could text while in the air, and every now and then Eddie rolls his eyes or groans exaggeratedly that Richie paid money just to send memes that served no purpose but to confuse Bill. 

“That stunt, at the premiere. Jane didn’t put you up to that right?” 

Eddie looks up then, eyes wide and earnest. “No, Richie, I— I was helping you out.” 

“Hmm,” Richie says, sidling closer just as the carousel starts up.

Eddie jumps to attention, immediately searching for his bags even though the tracks are still empty. Richie moves until he’s right next to Eddie and puts his arm around his shoulders. Eddie doesn’t react, of course — Richie’s done this hundreds of times throughout their lives. 

But when Richie turns his head and rests his chin gently on the top of Eddie’s head, he feels the way Eddie goes stiff for just a moment before relaxing into it. 

“This okay?” Richie asks, and Eddie nods, moving Richie’s head with it. “Cool.” 

They don’t move — Richie eventually stops craning his neck and shifts to lay his cheek on top of Eddie’s head instead. 

“People will talk,” Richie reminds him. “And for once, a little PDA will actually benefit my public image. That still okay?” 

“Fine,” Eddie says tightly. “Whatever you need.” 

“And what if I need to hold your hand?”  
  
Eddie goes still again; Richie’s heart races in his throat. 

“We held hands the whole night at the premiere,” Eddie says with a shrug. “Where the _fuck_ is our luggage?” 

The tracks are still empty, circling endlessly with nothing to show for it. Eddie’s not the only one getting antsy; others around them are murmuring irritably. Richie couldn’t care less, happy to wait in this stuffy airport until he dies as long as Eddie lets him touch him like this. 

He pulls his arm back, running a hand over Eddie’s tense shoulders, and trails it down to lace their fingers together. Eddie starts, looking first down at their joined hands and then back at Richie’s face, cheeks flushed. 

“And... what if I need to kiss you?” 

Eddie’s eyes widen briefly before he drops eye contact, looking around wildly and then back. He’s got that whole Bambi-deer-in-headlights look going, and instead of nerves Richie’s chest flutters with adoration. 

“ _Need_ to kiss me?” Eddie says with a laugh, trying valiantly to switch up their roles and turn it into a joke. Richie’s done joking. 

“ _Want_ to kiss you,” Richie corrects quietly, face heating up. 

Eddie looks around again — Richie half expects him to drop his hand, but he doesn’t. If anything he grips Richie’s hand tighter, stepping closer to him. He’s still surveying everyone around them anxiously, and Richie is starting to regret doing this while they’re still in public. 

“I— Eds, don’t have a stroke on me here,” Richie jokes after a moment. “I was just—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, because Eddie pushes up on his toes and brushes his lips to Richie’s flaming left cheek. 

It’s quick, over in a second, and Eddie is slowly turning into a tomato as he settles back down, hand still clasped tightly in Richie’s. They stare at each other until something catches Eddie’s attention and he looks away. 

“Fucking _finally_ ,” Eddie says, far more composed than Richie feels. 

He steps away to collect their bags, leaving Richie standing there uselessly, jaw left hanging open for the second time in as many days. Eddie drags the bags to him one by one and wanders off to collect one of the luggage carts. After he’s loaded all the bags he calmly walks over and presses two fingers to Richie’s chin, forcing him to close his mouth. 

“You look stupid. Let’s go, I’m starving and I need a shower.” 

* * *

Two hours later, they’re both showered and fed and sat on Richie’s couch watching more Great British Bake Off — Richie’s only retained about five minutes of it total, and after awhile Eddie notices.

“Okay, you’ve been fidgeting for like forty minutes,” Eddie finally says, pausing. “Were you even watching?”  
  
“Yes,” Richie lies. 

“Liar,” Eddie accuses, though there’s a smile curling at the edges of his mouth. His dimple always gives him away. 

“Maybe I’m distracted,” Richie says. 

“That’s a shocker.”

“I have a lot to be distracted about, okay!” Richie says defensively. 

“Oh? Pray tell,” Eddie says, turning to lean his back against the arm of the couch, stretching his legs towards Richie. Richie’s hands itch to reach out and hold his ankle.

“Like… I mean. You know what.” 

“Do I?” Eddie says, dimples betraying him again as he tries not to grin. 

“Don’t be an asshole man,” Richie begs. 

“Richie.” 

Richie looks up. Eddie sighs and pushes himself up on his knees on the couch, leaning forward until he’s right in front of Richie’s face, close enough to—

“I think you said something about wanting to kiss me?” Eddie breathes. 

“Yes,” Richie says immediately, repression be damned. 

Eddie leans in the rest of the way, meeting Richie halfway in a crushing kiss. His hands come up to cradle Richie’s face — Richie does his best to turn without breaking the kiss, hands finding Eddie’s hips, keeping his touches tentative even though he’s burning all over. Eddie groans and pulls away briefly to crawl in Richie’s lap, and this time when their lips meet it’s perfect. Richie sighs, arms wrapped so tightly around Eddie he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to detach from him again. Eddie’s tongue swipes at Richie’s bottom lip, followed up with a gentle bite that has Richie moaning in his mouth. 

“Oh,” Richie sighs when they break apart to breathe. 

“Oh,” Eddie repeats with a self satisfied little smirk. 

“So, you,” Richie starts as Eddie dives back in to press chaste little kisses to his jaw and throat, “you uh. You were flirting.” 

“Have been for nearly a year now,” Eddie mumbles against his skin. He pulls back and kisses Richie again, deep and slow. “Thanks for finally noticing.”

“Fuck you,” Richie says, but its half-hearted. Eddie is trailing sucking kisses on his jaw and he’s finding it hard to focus. 

“I’ve been _trying,_ ” Eddie says, making them both laugh. He lets up on Richie’s neck to sit back on Richie’s thighs, hands trailing along his shoulders. “But also… someone needed to do something about your fucking caveman pose.” 

“So… eighty percent trying to get in my pants, twenty percent trying to help me look human on the red carpet.”  
  
Eddie tilts his head in a way that’s so adorable Richie has to lean forward and kiss him again. They forget the question for a while, lost in each other what they’re finally allowed after so many years without. 

“Sixty-forty,” Eddie says breathlessly when they take a breath. 

Richie snorts unattractively but Eddie kisses him anyway. He kisses him all night, and again the next morning, and the next week on the red carpet, and if he’s really lucky, he’ll kiss him everyday until his last. 

  
**Richie Tozier Shows Off New Boy-Toy**

Richie Tozier last made headlines at the New York premiere for his latest film _Cruel Summer,_ in which he stars alongside Brad Pitt and Dakota Johnson. 

After coming out late last year, the comedian has hardly been able to avoid scrutiny about his love life. There have been speculations about his relationship with author William Denbrough, architect Benjamin Hanscom, and even with the dreamy Brad himself!

But Tozier finally made it clear who was the object of his affection — a childhood friend that _People_ has learned is Edward Kaspbrak, a financial risk analyst previously based in New York City. 

The couple walked the red carpet hand in hand last Saturday night, all smiles and shy blushes at Tozier’s New York premiere. They were seen again a week later walking hand in hand in downtown LA, and again at the London premiere a week later. 

_People_ reached out to Beverly Marsh, a close friend of Tozier and Kaspbrak, for comment. 

“A comment? Yes I have a comment. About f*cking time,” she said with a smile before striding away to her beau, the aforementioned Benjamin Hanscom, fashionable as ever in a peach sundress and floppy sun hat. 

Tozier has not yet made any public comments on his relationship aside from a post on his official Instagram account, pictured below. 

[IMAGE OF KASPBRAK SMILING AT TOZIER]

Caption: 

apparently showing up uninvited to someone’s movie premiere and dragging them by the hand down the red carpet is what some freaks consider “flirting.” who knew. ❤️

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. 'step and repeat' is the actual name of the backdrops on red carpets, which i only know because i googled 'what are the backdrops on red carpets called' because i research the most useless facts for my fics  
> 2\. yes 'cruel summer' is a taylor swift reference, because again i spent all my time googling 'what are the backdrops on red carpets called' and not like, coming up with original fake movie titles  
> 3\. eddie was def jealous of brad pitt. meant to work that in somewhere but instead focused on him being flustered at richie's shoulders and gravelly morning voice and almost directly quoting that "are you flirting with me?" meme  
> 4\. i asked on twitter if i should include smut and had every intention to, but if i'd done that this would've taken another 4 weeks because i hate my smut and it takes so long for me to write it BUT. maybe there will be a slutty sequel.  
> 5\. i borrowed the 'eddie copies and pastes the do not disturb message to get out of texts' thing from twitter, thank you to all the incredible smaus that created that gem, hope you don't mind that i used it <3  
> 6\. bill hader please answer my calls i have some notes


End file.
